Death of A Mother's Best Friend
by Sam Stachowiak
Summary: This is about the death of a daughter and how it effects the mother.


Death of a Mother's Best Friend

By Samantha Stachowiak

"Despair." That is the only word that could describe the mood of those at the funeral. Despair for a departed friend, daughter, and lover. Despair that the departed left so suddenly, like a flash of lightening in a Texas thunderstorm. Despair that she would never fulfill her ambitions or achieve her dreams, for Death had claimed her.

All were dressed in black from head to toe, appropriate for mourning over a person who would forever be muted and silenced beneath the cold earth. Black coats and shoes and pants and dresses and veils huddled together around the casket. The veils hid the faces of the women grievers and hats shadowed the facades of the men, not daring to she a tear in the presence of the deceased.

The monotonous drone of the priest overpowered the sobbing of women, whose lips quivered at the slightest mention of how the girl died; suicide, apparently. As the priest preached on, the stones behind him could be seen. The eyes of the Madonna, grayed with age and sorrow, stared into the sky, forever unseeing, with her hands over her chest. Crosses held their places proudly marking the ground of the dead. Some were well-cared for with colorful flowers and weeded surroundings, while others had been long abandoned with overgrown grass and dead gardens, adding to the decrepit nature of the tomb stones.

Surprisingly enough, the weather maintained its cheerful disposition. The sun gleamed over the funeral in the slightly chilly spring weather. It was the sort of chill that cooled the skin just enough to make the outside comfortable in waves of breezes gently rushing over the sweat. How nice the weather was.

The priest finished his sermon as rehearsed, start to finish, and asked if anybody had any last words for the dearly departed. Only one woman stepped forward. She was a heavy-set woman, round around the middle, beefier legs supporting her as she trudged towards the casket. Her veil was longer than the others, flowing down past her many chins. This woman cried harder than the rest. This woman knew that her daughter lay in the casket, never to smile or sing or walk or talk with her again. The woman was the deceased's mother.

As she inched closer and closer to the casket, the careless whispers resounded in her ears in loud echoes, much like a gun being shot in a quiet alleyway. The sound bounced off the inside of her ears, burning and scarring them. They were whispers of "Why didn't she notice?" and "She should have been there. Why wasn't she there for her?" and "Neglectfulness is not the same as innocence."

Nonetheless, the mother continued her walk. The mother walked towards her embarrassment. She walked towards her shame. She walked towards her failure. Finally the mother come face to face with her daughter, dressed in white, golden hair sprawled angelically around her, and dark eyes closed for eternity. The mother lifted her daughter's folded hand and placed a pure white lily in its stead, making the picture of death all the more real and tangible. The mother ran a finger against the cool, lifeless, incredibly pale skin. Words of "I love you" escaped the mother's lips as she let her tanned finger drop to her side and strolled away as slowly as she had come. The whispers continued.

That night, the mother simply lay in bed. There were no tears anymore. There was only the heaviness at the bottom of her stomach. There were only the whispers replaying in her mind over and over and over and over again. Why hadn't she noticed? Why hadn't she been there? Was she really just an innocent bystander in this whole masquerade of death?

Every time the mother drifted into a slumber, snarls of neighbors, friends, and relatives popped in her dreams, making her sleepless night all the more like Hell. They were the faces that snarled and asked endless questions; faces that laughed at her ignorance; faces that mocked her every move; faces that accused her; faces that wanted to make her run and hide away forever.

The mother could take no more. She jumped out of bed as fast as her body would allow under the sluggishness of age. She marched into the bathroom and found a bottle of sleeping pills and she swallowed it whole. Then, she went to bed once again and waited. She thought to herself, "Nobody can laugh at me now. Nobody can stare. Nobody can ask me why." The thought of her daughter was miles away as she stared at the ceiling, thinking of being in a better place than where she was now.


End file.
